Courting Trouble

“Whatsa matter, child?” Mrs. Brown asked, her voice kind, and she eyed Anne even through her clumsy disguise. Sunglasses, baseball cap, or lipstick, Anne had been hiding something as long as she could remember.

Everything. “Nothing, thanks,” Anne answered.

She followed Judy through the remaining room on the floor, Mrs. Brown’s bedroom, scented faintly of drugstore talc. It contained a saggy double bed covered by a thin chenille spread so neat that its worn white tufts lined up like monuments in a military cemetery. Over the bed hung a large wooden crucifix, and on the nightstand a doily runner, a small fake-Tiffany lamp, a yellowed Westclox alarm clock, and a worn Bible that left Anne with a thickness in her throat.

She hit the stairwell full of emotion she couldn’t begin to sort out, much less express, exacerbated by the annoying clop-clopping of Judy’s wooden clogs on the uncarpeted stair. By the time they reached the second floor, then descended to the first, which was air-conditioned and full of modern smells, Anne couldn’t say goodbye to the son-in-law because she wanted to throttle him, even with the police on the way. She headed for the front door, opened it wide, and came face-to-face with a man about her age, standing on the front stoop, about to knock.

“Hello!” the man said, and grinned in a toothy way. He wore a tan Australian bush hat with one side pinned up, and a white Weezer T-shirt with loose jeans and black Teva sandals.

“Uh, hello,” Anne replied, startled.

“I’m Angus Connolly. Sorry to disturb your holiday, but I was wondering if you’ve seen this man.” He reached into his back pocket and handed Anne her own red flyer. “His name is Kevin Satorno.”

Anne was so shocked she couldn’t find her voice. Not even her inner voice.

“I was just wondering if you’ve seen his man. He’s a suspect in the murder of one of your neighbors down the block, last night. Just two doors away.” The man turned and pointed at Anne’s house.

“Who are you?”

“I’m a reporter. With City Beat.”

“City Beat?” Anne eyed him for a press pass but found none. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“We’re a free newspaper, and I’m trying to make a name for myself, me and my friends. We’re investigating this murder and asking all the neighbors if they saw this man last night.” He frowned. “Wait a minute, you do live here, don’t you?”

“No, she doesn’t,” Judy answered, coming up behind Anne. “And she hasn’t seen that man. But I know someone who has. She’s right upstairs and she’s about to tell her story to the cops, who will be here any minute. Looks like you got the scoop, dude.”

“For real?” The man climbed the stoop, and at the same moment, Anne felt Judy’s knuckle in the small of her back, nudging her out of harm’s way.

“Go right upstairs,” Judy continued. “Bennie Rosato’s there, too. She’ll answer any questions you have.”

“Bennie Rosato? The Bennie Rosato? Oh my God!” The wanna-be reporter whipped a cell phone from the back pocket of his jeans. “I need a photographer fast,” he was saying into it when he hustled inside the house.

“Go, go, go, girl!” Judy whispered, falling into step beside Anne, pushing her forward by her elbow. “You want the cops and the press to recognize you?”

“No, of course not,” Anne said, but her heart felt so full. What’s the matter with me? Why am I acting like such a loser? Tears came to her eyes, and fatigue washed over her. Maybe it was all catching up to her at once. She let Judy lead her down the street, hurrying her along, past her own house and the cellophane-wrapped bouquets on her front stoop. She looked over and stopped at the sight of one of them. A bouquet of daisies, wrapped by a white ribbon. It hadn’t been there before. She bent down and picked it up.

“What are you doing?” Judy asked, between gritted teeth.

A couple passing by were scowling at Anne, their disapproval undisguised, but she couldn’t speak. She stared down at the daisy bouquet. A pink card attached to it had been typed, as if the flower order had been phoned in. It read simply:

Love, Mom.

14

Bennie steered the Mustang through the city traffic, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror. By now Anne had learned enough about Bennie to know it wasn’t the traffic that had her worried. Judy kept glancing back at her, and Mary was permanently affixed to her right hand.

“Don’t worry, everybody, I’m fine,” Anne said, though she sat in the backseat clutching her mother’s daisies like a baby blanket. Mental note: You can know you’re acting like a dope and still not be able to stop it.

“There’s really nothing to worry about,” Mary said, squeezing her hand from the seat next to her. “We couldn’t have planned it this well. The cops will get Kevin’s ID from Mrs. Brown, and the news will run the story tonight. It’s probably all over the web already. Everybody in the city will be looking for Kevin Satorno.”

“Yeah, Anne.” Judy twisted around in the front seat, the last of the day’s light filtering through her sunny hair, her bandanna blowing in the wind. “The heat will be on him. They’ll have Kevin in custody in time for us to take a field trip to the fireworks.”

The Mustang cruised forward to a red light, and Bennie braked. “Only problem is, it may discourage him from showing up at the memorial service, if he’s still a fugitive.”

“He’ll be there,” Anne said, with absolute certainty. They were getting closer to catching Kevin, and Bennie’s reaction to Plan B had been much better than she had expected, though she wasn’t sure why. “He’ll find a way to be there.”

The Mustang idled in traffic, and Bennie tapped her finger on the wheel. “Let’s think about that. How will he do it? Talk to me, Murphy. It was your idea.”

“Well, I used to think he’d come as a guest, a mourner in some half-assed disguise, but now I’m beginning to wonder.” Anne wondered if Bennie was just trying to engage her, but played along because it was such a nice thing to do. “Not with the cops and every reporter in the city, looking to make his mark. I’m thinking now he might try to come in another way.”

“Like what?” Judy asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe as staff of some kind?”

“Secret agent stuff.” Judy smiled. “Yowza!”

“So, what’s at a memorial service, ladies? Let’s brainstorm,” Bennie gave the car some gas. “We’re having it at the Chestnut Club, in town. What staff will be there? Any?”

“Only the head lady, because it’s closed.” Anne had made the arrangements for her memorial service, posing on the telephone as a cousin from California. The Chestnut was one of the oldest eating clubs in Philadelphia, with two stories of dining rooms and waiters in white jackets with time-warp Nehru collars. “They subcontract out the catering. The lack of house staff will make it easier for Kevin.”

Mary frowned. “How?”

“Well, Kevin is smart. It’s not beyond him to anticipate that my firm would hold a memorial service of some kind, especially after you offered the reward. I took out ads in the Sunday papers, announcing the service, open to the public. He’s got to see one of them and find out where it is, then maybe he’ll get hired by the caterer or something.”

“Really.” Mary sounded almost respectful, and Anne knew the feeling.

“I know. My stalker is a genius.”

“There’ll be flowers,” Judy offered, thinking aloud. “He might come as a flower delivery guy.”

It sent a chill through Anne. “Very possible. Kevin’s a red-roses kind of psycho. Sent them to me every day, a single one.”

The Mustang accelerated down Race Street. “Here’s how it’ll go down,” Bennie said, wind blowing blond tendrils into her eyes. “I’ll backstop everybody, but we all need our own jobs. Carrier, you quiz the flower delivery guys. DiNunzio, you deal with the press. Don’t let them in the service, but check their IDs anyway. Satorno may use it as a way to get close.”

Mary nodded. “Got it.”